


Cagey

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, John Loves Sherlock, Light Angst, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Past Torture, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5914759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It hurts to know that even after all they’ve been through, Sherlock still doesn’t trust him. Always holding him at arm’s length, never letting him close.</p><p>In which Sherlock is ashamed of his scars, and he doesn't want John to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cagey

 

 

It starts with one word.

 

“No.”

 

Sherlock is in an absolutely foul mood. He’s been holed up in his bedroom sulking for about four days now, and John’s patience is wearing thin.

 

“You’ve got a fever, I need to examine you.”

 

“I told you I’m fine John; you don’t think I’d know if there was actually something wrong with me?”

 

“Honestly Sherlock? No, I don’t. You’re not a doctor, you can’t deduce this. If you had the proper training, then yeah; you’d be the diagnostic equivalent of god, but you don’t. You have encyclopaedic knowledge of murder, not medicine. This is _my_ area of expertise, so just lie down and stop being a brat about it.”

 

“Doctors are idiots.”

 

"Cheers for that, stick your neck out for me, any nausea?"

 

John perches gingerly on the edge of his bed, and tries to feel Sherlock’s throat for swollen lymph nodes, but he bats John’s hands away irritably. 

 

“Stop pawing at me! Isn’t there some consent law you have to follow; 'do no harm' or something?”

 

He pushes John firmly away and rolls over, turning his back. It's incredibly aggravating, Sherlock Holmes has to be the world's _worst_ patient.

 

“Yeah, the Hippocratic Oath, but I'm more concerned about that _other_ oath I took; y'know, the one about _treating_ _the sick_. I'm not harming you Sherlock, you're sick.”

 

“No,” Sherlock snaps, “I’m not; I have a slightly elevated temperature, point seven five of a degree. Do you really think that every patient with a minor fever warrants the attention of their own private ex-army surgeon? Because that is incredibly impractical.”

 

John pauses, and he only becomes more concerned at Sherlock’s resistance to so much as a basic examination.

 

“What don’t you want me to see?”

 

“I’d really just like to sleep,” Sherlock shoots back scathingly.

 

“You’re deflecting.”

 

“And _you’re_ overreacting. I’m not dying John, I’m not even sick; in fact I’m perfectly healthy. Relax; I’m not going anywhere.”

 

His voice is only marginally friendlier, and John won’t be distracted by the reference to his suicide; maybe he is being overprotective, but not everything leads back to that.

 

“Cut the crap Sherlock, what is it?”

 

“Let it go John, you’re imagining things,” Sherlock says shortly, words clipped.

 

“Then why are you so adamant? You could just humour me and let me see for myself that there’s nothing to see, but you won’t. Because there _is_ something.”

 

Sherlock is glaring at him, a muscle in his jaw twitching angrily.

 

“Sherlock-” he tries again.

 

“Damn it John; leave me alone!” The detective shouts impatiently, and John flinches at how quickly he loses his cool.

 

Up until now, Sherlock had presented a perfectly reasonable argument about a minor illness being hardly something to consult a doctor about. God knows he saw so many people at the clinic who really didn’t need to be there, putting strain on the health system when they just needed paracetamol and rest.

 

But the fact that he had a point was precisely the problem. He’d clearly thought this argument through in advance, saying his piece as if he were quoting it from a script; prepared words designed to appease John’s concern. He’d given sound reasons to support his theory, presented John with medically relevant facts and precedence. Why would he bother, when he knew John would insist anyway?

 

He’d put in too much effort where it wasn’t warranted, and that in itself made John suspicious.

 

This fever could easily be the root of some deeper problem, something that makes Sherlock feel like he has to hide it from John. What doesn’t Sherlock want him to know? If something _is_ wrong, why wouldn’t he just tell him? Does he feel guilty? Is he embarrassed? Or worse, is he trying to protect John from some terrible truth?

 

It feels like that day at St. Bart's all over again, Sherlock was evasive in just the same way, John had known something was wrong then too, but he’d given him space, hadn’t pushed him for an answer. Sherlock _died_ that day, and John had spent two years thinking that maybe it was all because he just _hadn’t asked_. That maybe if he’d found the right words, he could have saved him.

 

He knows now that nothing he could have said would have made any difference, but he still won’t risk making the same mistake twice.

 

He can’t shake that anxiety, it’s too soon for him to be able to put it behind him, and dismiss it; he can’t ignore the similarities in the situation. He can’t help but fear the worst because it feels like he’s going through it all over again; a premonition of Sherlock’s death.

 

Sherlock is always keeping secrets and telling lies, hiding things from him. It leaves John perpetually in the dark, and he hates it. John is his doctor, his best friend; he would be the first person Sherlock would turn to for help…wouldn’t he?

 

It scares him when Sherlock does things like this; running off without him, leaving John always one step behind. One day he’s going to get himself killed, he’ll die and John won’t be there, simply because he didn’t trust anyone enough to ask for help.

 

It hurts to know that even after all they’ve been through, Sherlock still doesn’t trust him. Always holding him at arm’s length, never letting him close.

 

Does he really think so little of John that he still can’t confide in him? Does he not have confidence in John’s abilities, his loyalty? Does he think John inadequate for the task?

 

How can Sherlock not know that he could tell John _anything_? He could confess to any crime, no matter how terrible, and John would never breathe a word of it. He might be horrified, he might leave, he may never be able to forgive him; but wouldn’t turn him in.

 

John has always supported him, done everything he’d asked, even when it was against his better judgement; never ceasing to believe in him. It’s scary how deep his devotion goes, he would die for this man; but Sherlock still doesn’t see it.

 

 _Mycroft Holmes_ saw it. He had tested his character the first day they met, and he’d passed with flying colours when he outright refused to betray him, a man he barely knew. Mycroft trusts him; but Sherlock won’t.

 

He would drop everything to run after him, he’s _killed_ for him. He’s proven himself, time and time again, but nothing he does ever seems to matter.

 

John would follow him to the ends of the earth, if he’d only ask.

 

At some point he realised that he could never be happy without him, he belongs here; it’s what made him come back. It terrifies him how important Sherlock is to him, but he knows he’s too invested now to go back; he can’t lose him a second time.

 

He wants to be there for him every step of the way, John’s need to help him is a compulsion. He _needs_ Sherlock, like he’s never needed anybody else; he’s _all_ he needs.

 

But he’s finally in a place where he’s okay with that, whatever the connotations may be. Sherlock Holmes is _it_ for him; he’s come to terms with this fact. For the first time in his life he feels like he understands _himself_ ; he finally knows who he _is_ now, and no one can take that away from him.

 

If he could only have this and nothing else, for the rest of his life; he’d take it. He’d never wonder about what could have been, because he knows without a doubt, that _this_ is what he wants.

 

He doesn’t need a wife, children, or some domestic life in the suburbs. It’s a pretty picture, and that’s always what he _thought_ his future would look like, but then Sherlock had happened, and that changed everything.

 

Now he can’t ever imagine a life like that; he’d get bored, and he’d come to resent it. Anything else, any _one_ else, would always fall short in comparison; nothing would ever be able to compete with Sherlock Holmes. He’d regret it to the end of his days if he chose that path and not Sherlock’s.

 

As long as they’re together, everything will be okay; he honestly believes that, and he’s prepared to fight for it.

 

He doesn’t care how insignificant it may be, Sherlock is too important to him to let this slide. He wants to know what’s wrong; every time. He wants them to do this together, for Sherlock to welcome him in, to tell him when he’s hurting.

 

He wants to take care of him; and he wants Sherlock to _let_ him.

 

It may be possible that John _is_ overdramatising this, it’s probable in fact. But he _knows_ Sherlock, and before, this would never have been a problem, John giving him a quick once over.

 

Oh sure, he would have pouted and been insufferable about it, but he would have consented wordlessly, just to get it over with. They’ve done this a thousand times after crime scenes, or when the bastard collapses from malnutrition.

 

John is _always_ the one to patch him up, the only one allowed to touch him; it’s routine, they’ve never questioned it.

 

But now Sherlock recoils at the mere _idea_ of John touching him.

 

So what has changed?

 

 _Two years._ His mind supplies helpfully _; everything has changed._

He doesn’t _want_ it to change, he wants to get back to where they were, and _more_ ; he wants them to take this chance they’ve been given, and run with it, wherever that might lead.

 

Sherlock is getting progressively cagier as it becomes clear that John isn’t backing down.

 

John knows this dance only too well; it’s so seared into his muscle memory that he could do it blindfolded. He has Sherlock’s movements already lined up in his head. When denial fails, the next step is anger; rile John up and distract him, become defensive and rude. Push John away, lash out until John decides it’s not worth the trouble and backs off.

 

He waits.

 

Sherlock looks up ten minutes later, peering over his shoulder to find he’s still there, and the music begins.

 

“For god’s sake John!”

 

He throws his head back, growling in frustration, and rolls over to glare at him.

 

“Get a hold of your Messiah complex. Go save some dying child who needs your help if you need to feel like your life has any meaning to it, instead of wasting my time. Go satisfy your desperation to be needed elsewhere.”

 

John sighs and forces himself to remain calm, which is difficult with Sherlock spitting out all these home truths, striking where he knows John is most vulnerable. It won’t work.

 

He can take this, because every harsh word just serves to add to his conviction. He _knows_ he’s right now, and he needs to get to the core of the problem.

 

“If this is some odd manifestation of survivor’s guilt because you couldn’t save me the first time, then go deal with your own damn problems and stop projecting them onto me!”

 

Sherlock’s eyes are flashing, bright with anger. He glares in defiance, challenging John to take the bait, trying to lure him into a fight by jabbing blindly at his weak spots.

 

Classic defensive deflection; right on cue. They’re waltzing, circling each other, bodies and minds moving in tandem. Now for the turn.

 

John stands calmly until Sherlock’s tirade has wound down, and he waits as Sherlock’s piercing stare attempts to unnerve him.

 

“Are you done?” John asks him calmly.

 

Next step: fight or flight. When fight fails and John refuses to engage, Sherlock will predictably bolt; storming out in a fugue of affronted rage.

 

It was Sherlock hurting 101; concealing actual human emotion in a veil of petulance and melodrama, until anyone trying to help him runs screaming for the hills.

 

John is not quite as blind as Sherlock gives him credit for, he understands how people deal with stress; it was a vital part of his job description. In the army, you have to form a bond with those you serve with; you have to know that you can rely on them to have your back when it counts. Mutual trust is more precious than water in the desert.

 

As a medic, he saw things in men, observed how they reacted under stress, and it was essential that he notice any fluctuation in behaviour, any tell that might indicate an inability to perform their duties.

 

John is not a stupid man, and he’s got Sherlock’s reactions pinned down to a tee. In the end he responds to pain the same way as everybody else, he’s just more difficult about it. But that’s just how he is, John doesn’t expect anything less, doesn’t want Sherlock to change; no one said this was going to be easy. He’s in this for the long run; for better or worse.

 

Friends protect people, and everybody needs a support structure to catch them when they stumble. There are no exceptions to this rule, genius consulting detectives included. But Sherlock doesn’t have _friends_ , as he so viciously reminded John in Dartmoor; he only has one.

 

It’s up to John to steady him now because there’s no one else. But that’s okay, because he _chose_ this, he _wants_ to be that person for him; someone Sherlock can run to, someone he can rely on. There are some things in life that you _should_ be able to take for granted.

 

The last thing anyone wants is Mycroft Holmes to have to step in; John has no intention of letting it get that far.

 

Sherlock needs him, even if he doesn’t want to.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

“If you’re going to just stand there like an idiot, then fine; I’ve got work to do.”

 

He rises fluidly, and attempts to move past him, but John nimbly blocks his path.

 

“A minute ago you were tired,” He comments mildly.

 

“I’m feeling _refreshed and invigorated_ ,” Sherlock quips sarcastically, “now _move_.”

 

“I _could_ do that. Or…I could keep you here until you’re either forced to talk to me, or wet your damn pants.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widen in at the threat, and John is pleased that he still has the ability to surprise him. He knows how to deal with Sherlock Holmes.

 

“This is juvenile.” Sherlock mutters, not liking the turn this has taken.

 

“You started it,” John counters childishly.

 

Sherlock sizes him up, eyes flicking over John’s frame.

 

“I could take you.”

 

“Mmm, no you can’t.”

 

“I’ve got a good four inches on you, I’m in significantly better shape, and I am an accomplished boxer.” Sherlock snaps, puffing his chest up in an effort to be menacing.

 

“Ye-es, and I’m an ex-soldier, almost twice your weight. Plus you have the disadvantage of not having slept properly or had a decent meal in four days; you’ve barely moved from that spot. I’m pretty confident I’d win.”

 

John raises his eyebrows in challenge. He can see Sherlock’s mind whirring, and for a second, he’s almost certain that Sherlock is about to clock him, simply out of spite.

 

But he doesn’t. Which is a good thing because John is bluffing, well, mostly bluffing. He’s not above tackling the git to the floor, but he wouldn’t ever properly fight the man, especially not when he’s sick. He’d seen domestic violence in action with his parents, and it was ugly; cowardly. No matter how insufferable Sherlock can be, he’d never stoop that low. The thought repels him.

 

But in this condition, he’s not convinced that Sherlock would share his reservations.

 

Sherlock has no way of knowing this though, he can’t be a hundred percent sure of John’s next move, can’t trust that he won’t follow through. There’s been a two year gap in their friendship, and they’ve not quite reached the level of understanding they had been on before.

 

Because John _did_ hit him when he came back; and he didn’t pull the punch that time. The stakes have changed, and Sherlock can’t be entirely certain what he’s capable of. Sherlock is clearly not thinking straight, he’s manic and unpredictable, so the reverse is also true; what is _Sherlock_ capable of now, what new man is he?

 

John is still waiting for his attack, but the risk of being utterly humiliated, and having that held over his head, seems to outweigh Sherlock’s defensive resolve.

 

Sherlock warily perches himself on the foot of the bed; imminent crisis averted.

 

But his surrender means that Sherlock knows John would win, which is definitely a bad thing; because he shouldn’t. He _shouldn’t_ win. John shouldn’t have a hope in _hell_ of beating Sherlock in unarmed combat, no matter how good his training is.

 

As much as he hates to admit it; John has been remiss about his exercise routine since Sherlock died, and he has the extra pudge to show for it. All the late night chases that came with a case, trailing Sherlock around the city, had done wonders for his physical fitness, and without that in his life, he’d let it slip; he’d let everything slip.

 

He’s a middle aged man, and Sherlock…well, Sherlock is trained in at least 3 martial art forms that he knows of, and is arguably in better shape than he left. There is a visible increase in muscle mass even through his t-shirt, but…that doesn’t mean he’s well, not by anyone’s standards.

 

He’d evidently kept himself active in those two years, but something must have changed to upset that balance, because he’s also lost a lot of weight, and recently too by the looks of it; there’s not an inch of body fat on him.

 

Sherlock is not at the top of his game, but he still could have beaten John, he’s faster and craftier, slipping past John should have been an easy task. Yet even with all his physical prowess, Sherlock has somehow concluded that John has the upper hand here, ergo: there’s something not right with this picture.

 

He’d even felt a hint of fear in his flatmate at the idea of John keeping him locked up in this room indefinitely, though it was quickly stifled by anger. John doesn’t like that; not one bit.

 

Sherlock shouldn’t _ever_ be afraid of him, or of being held captive; He must know that John would have backed down eventually. Sherlock was so _used_ to being kidnapped, be it by the hands his brother, a serial killer, or professional mercenaries that it now fell into the category of _dull_.

 

He’d wiggled his way out of so many tight spots in their time together that he could have been a qualified escape artist. It was hard to imagine there being _anywhere_ that Sherlock couldn’t break out of, but it had clearly bothered him, so why?

 

John has learnt more from Sherlock than he realised, and _god_ ; it’s good to have the bastard back.

 

Now for the hard part; fighting Sherlock would have been relatively easy, shouting matches were par for the course, but getting Sherlock to open up to him, to have an adult conversation…that was uncharted waters.

 

~

 

Sherlock feels the fight draining from his body; he hasn’t enough energy to continue this.

 

He knows that John is only trying to help, but he wishes he wouldn’t; he doesn’t want him to see the evidence of his weakness that is seared into his skin. He is tarnished; scarred, and he doesn't want John to know that, to see how he'd been beaten. He knows John will not think any less of him, but they're still ugly, and they still remind him of every time he failed.

 

John will feel that he is at least partially at fault for this. He will blame himself for Sherlock's pain, and that's not fair, he can't lay that on John's conscience. He'll be angry at himself for not being there, for not protecting Sherlock, even when he could not possibly have hoped to.

 

He holds himself personally responsible for Sherlock's safety; to the point of idiocy. It's endearing at times, but John agonises over it, and Sherlock doesn't want to see him suffer, he's already put him through enough pain.

 

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you’re okay.”

 

Sherlock looks at him; “I’m okay.”

 

He says it because John asked him to, and, because maybe if he says it enough times; it will be true.

 

“Will you quit _lying_ to me Sherlock?!” John shouts. He hasn’t raised his voice at all until now and the sudden explosion makes him jump. Sherlock looks up sharply.

 

“You’re _not_ fine, and I want you to tell me _why_.”

 

“You want to make me say it, is that it?” Sherlock accuses softly, but there’s an undercurrent of something nasty brewing, then his face twists;

 

“Well you win! I’m not fine, I’m not even remotely okay, I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I can’t eat. My brain is rotting in my skull; leaving me completely _useless_. It _hurts_. Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now?”

 

His hands stop gesticulating wildly and he stares up at John from his position on the bed.

 

John looks sad, and Sherlock can’t stand it. This is what he'd been trying to avoid. He doesn’t know how to make it go away. He wants to cup his cheeks and smooth the offending expression from his face.

 

He’d been trying so hard to act as he had before, as if nothing had changed. He fiercely wants everything to return to normal, for them to be comfortable in their friendship once more. He doesn’t want to deal with this, doesn’t want to address the shadows threatening them.

 

He had channelled everything into his pretence, striving to maintain it for his every waking moment. He thought he’d been doing so well, but John isn’t fooled, he sees through him in ways no one else ever has.

 

“No. _God!_ Of course I’m not happy Sherlock. I don’t _want_ you to be in pain; I just want to _understand_. Please help me understand.”

 

He remembers the words that always break him;

 

_‘Please Sherlock; for me?’_

 

He never _had_ been able to deny John anything. He’d selfishly kept his silence, and he hadn’t known that all that time, John had been quietly hurting in the background, feeling as though Sherlock doesn’t trust him.

 

The feeling of self-hatred sets in hard. He does not deserve this man.

 

He wants to tell John to run, to get as far away from him as he can. Because he’s a vicious undercurrent, and he’ll only end up dragging John down along with him. But he knows he couldn’t let him go, he’d find him no matter where he ran.

 

He knows that’s not good, that it’s not healthy; that his unrequited infatuation with John has turned into something deeper, and darker; something dangerous. What he feels for this man now borders on obsession, and that scares him.

 

Obsession with a person never ends well; that’s how serial killers are born; that’s what created Jim Moriarty, spurred him into committing atrocities in Sherlock’s name. He had blown up a block of flats, sponsored a serial killer; all to get Sherlock’s attention.

 

He had sworn to himself then that he’d never become like him.

 

Whatever John can give him, he’ll always want more. John does not share the depths of his affections, and his friendship may not be enough. Sometimes it’s excruciating just living with him; to have him so close, yet still entirely out of reach.

 

But John can never know how much he cares for him, He’d lose him completely and he doesn’t want to live that way. If John left it would unhinge him irrevocably; he’s scared his mind would snap, and he’d go crazy.

 

People will do anything for love, it’s like insanity, it turns them ugly; making them do things they’d never imagined themselves capable of.

 

But the way John looks up at him, with infinite tenderness, that golden glow, as if he were the most amazing thing he’d ever seen…it makes him want to be _better_ , it makes him want to be that man.

 

Sometimes when John gets that look in his eyes…he almost dares to hope.

 

What John feels for him is so beautiful, so chaste, and so pure; he truly believes that Sherlock is a good man, some kind of genius hero, and it breaks his heart to know that he is not that person.

 

All he’s brought to John is pain, and hardship.

 

When he was away and alone, when John wasn’t with him, it tore his soul in two. He’d yearned to see him again. Those two weeks where John wouldn’t see him he was useless; lost, pining for his conductor of light.

 

He wouldn’t leave the flat for days, and then he’d run for miles; all night, directionless, until his back was bleeding and his feet blistered.

 

He played the violin for hours, sweeping the bow to the highest note, pushing the music to its limits, instrument crying with his melancholy, squeezing every note _con dolore_. He channelled all of his torment into every piece, playing with more passion than ever before.

 

Sometimes he could hear Mrs Hudson crying from all the way down in her flat, as his music seeped into the woodwork, lacing it with his misery.

 

John is still waiting expectantly.

 

He can’t help but feel apprehensive at the prospect of giving up another piece of his heart. John must have almost all of them by now; all of him.

 

“I don’t know if I can,” he admits, looking up at John as a broken man. It's a long story, one he doesn't want to think about.

 

John takes a step closer, so his leg is brushing Sherlock’s thigh, and the compassion in his face will be Sherlock’s undoing.

 

“Let me help you,” John pleads, and he can’t stand to hear him beg.

 

He’s the one who should be begging; begging him his forgiveness. He wants to fall to his knees and wrap his arms around John’s shins to stop him from leaving.

 

_‘Don’t leave me, don’t leave me here alone, I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m falling apart.’_

His mouth is refusing to speak.

 

“I can’t. But I can show you.”

 

Without waiting for a reply, he pulls hit t-shirt over his head, and taking a deep breath, he turns to the side. The air is cool on his exposed skin, and the scars on his back tingle.

 

For a moment everything is still, and their breathing sounds infinitely louder.

 

But then John sits down heavily next to him, and traces his fingers down the column of his spine, making him shiver with the intimacy. His hands chart every raised mark and burn; he maps them out methodically, treating each one with a reverence Sherlock has never felt before.

 

He relaxes his muscles, feeling safe in John’s hands.

 

John is paying particular attention to one of the more severe scars; this one runs deep, a straight diagonal line ending at the small of his back. The blood loss nearly killed him.

 

With no warning, he feels the lightest press of lips against the centre of the scar. This _one_ _touch_ nearly kills him.

 

He stiffens in alarm, because John has _kissed_ him; chastely, and only for a few seconds, but it was still _there_ , it still _happened_. The implications of such an action terrify him. John has closed the distance, crossed that tentative line that always ran between them; he has pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s skin.

 

“Too much?” John pulls away.

 

He can still feel the caress of dry lips on his back, the area smarting psychosomatically; oversensitive.

 

“Yes,” He chokes.

 

It _was_ , it was far too much, he can barely think with the sensation.

 

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to impose…if you don’t want…”

 

No, this isn’t right. Why is he apologising? What doesn’t Sherlock want?

 

“Don’t be. Don’t _ever_ be sorry; not for this, not ever.”

 

It slips out before he can stop it, and he’s never been more sincere in his life. He couldn’t bear for John to regret this kiss, because it means _everything_ to him. He wants him to do it again, for John to kiss him sweetly and never stop.

 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is tentative, and slightly awestruck, like he knows what Sherlock is saying, but can’t believe that it’s happening, that Sherlock _wants_ him. But he doesn’t sound upset, which is encouraging.

 

Suddenly he just _knows_ ; the moment has arrived, it has been thrust upon them, but it feels right, and he’s not afraid anymore. It’s like a light has been turned on somewhere in his brain; and he’s ready. Sherlock hadn’t planned this confession, but out of nowhere it’s on the tip of his tongue, and he needs to get it out.

 

“ _I love you_.”

 

He says it quietly but surely. His head is bowed, his back is wounded and scarred, and they’re not even facing each other, but he doesn’t think he could have done it any other way.

 

A surge of something powerful fills his chest, because he _means_ it, he really means it; he loves John Watson, he always has, and he’s finally found the courage to say so.

 

John’s breath hitches, and there’s silence.

 

Then warm arms are being wrapped around his naked torso, and John is pressing himself flush against his back, in an embrace, but it is not one of two platonic flatmates; it is a _lover’s_ embrace.

 

His head is spinning so much with the revelation that John feels the same; that John is _in love_ with him, that he almost misses it when the man actually says the words.

 

“I love you too Sherlock,” John murmurs against his shoulder blade as he kisses it, moving his mouth over all his imperfections, galvanising them so that they cannot hurt him anymore.

 

He doesn’t have to be miserable a moment longer, because he is John’s, and John is _his_. The thought makes him dizzy, and he needs reassurance, because it _can’t_ be true, he can’t possibly be this lucky.

 

“Hey, hey; look at me.”

 

He feels John’s fingers cupping his jaw, turning his head so he can see his face. He must have felt Sherlock’s doubt because he smiles softly, and he’s doing it again; he’s looking at Sherlock like he is his whole world, like he could never _possibly_ want anything else.

 

He wants to cry, fighting back tears as John brushes a thumb over his left cheekbone, because after so long, it’s like deliverance, knowing that John wants him back, wants all of him, all of his flaws.

 

“I love you too, you brilliant, mad bastard,” John repeats, and then Sherlock is kissing him, hard and desperate, and he’s definitely crying now, but he doesn’t even care.

 

John takes control, and the kiss becomes less frantic and more reassuring, slower, sweeter and somehow more overwhelming.

 

When they break apart, Sherlock is smiling, beaming, because he’s so relieved he's _happy_. John’s answering grin is like sunlight.

 

“We’re really doing this.”

 

“Yes, I believe we are.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I finally did it, I finally managed to force them to get there.


End file.
